


Break On Me

by lotrspnfangirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Community: smpc, Desperation, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Porn with Feelings, Top Dean, Wall Sex, season 2 canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 12:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14895012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirl
Summary: This time was too close. Dean stared at his baby brother, blood still drying but his heart still beating, and realized something important.





	Break On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for June's SMPC!!!!

He blew out a slow breath, trying to push back the burning in his throat and stop his hands from shaking. 

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done this a million times over. He’d stitched himself and Sam and Dad up more times than he could count, nearly every inch of skin had been knitted back together at one point or another; quick stitches and fishing line done up in the back of the Impala or dingy hotel rooms. Dean knew there were wounds that should’ve seen the inside of a hospital room instead of compromising with an oxycontin and swig of whiskey, but they made it okay. 

Until… 

Sam hissed, his eyes squeezing tightly shut and Dean tightened his hold on the needle between his fingers, poising it above Sam’s throat. He swallowed hard and glanced up, locking eyes with his brother. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, hating that his voice was shaking just as much as his hands. He blew out another breath. “I’ll be more careful.”

“Dean,” Sam said softly, and it made Dean’s stomach clench, “I’m okay.”

Dean closed his eyes. _I’m okay._ Yeah, this time Sam was okay. But the nick had been a little too close for comfort. An inch or so to the left or just a fraction deeper, and it would’ve required more than Dean himself could doctor. Dean couldn’t handle that. 

They’d had their fair share of tumbles with monsters that left them worse for wear, but it had never been _this_ close. Dean had never been afraid that Sam wasn’t going to stand up and stumble his way to the Impala at Dean’s side. The one time Dean had to drag Sam to the car, it hadn’t even been from a fight; Sam had been six and felt invincible, the one time he acted his age, and took a swan dive off an old barn roof, resulting in a broken ankle. 

This time… 

The kitsune was quick, but they’d been prepared. They hadn’t been expecting him to have backup, however. The second kitsune hadn’t been in any of their reports, they hadn’t caught wind of there being a partnership of any kind, and there had been no other movement inside the apartment when they’d surveyed it. It was supposed to be simple: break in and stab him through the heart. 

And Dean had done that, had just been ready to turn around and suggest they go grab a beer before heading back to the motel, when his brother’s voice came out through a wet gasp. 

“Dean!”

He blinked when Sam’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, squeezing tight. Dean looked down, seeing his last stitch half done, a drop of blood oozing free. He pressed the blanket against Sam’s throat gently, then placed the last stitch, going through the motions of tying it off and cleaning up the wound. 

Sam sighed once he was done, relaxing back against the arm of the couch. It gave Dean the perfect view of the rest of the room. Both of the bodies of the kitsune were still on the floor, Dean’s own knife and the fire poker he’d grabbed, stuck in their chests and standing straight up. 

The bitch that had nearly taken Sam’s life still had her eyes open, bright blue and glassy as they stared back at him. He wanted to slap the look off her face. Redundant, sure, and Sam would’ve probably be damn near sold on the idea that Dean had finally snapped… It would make him feel better though, if only for a moment. 

“We’re going to need to clean up,” Sam cleared his throat, trying to hide his struggle to pull himself back up into a sitting position. Dean itched to grab his arm and help him, just barely restraining himself, already knowing the face Sam would pull. “Either that or clear out.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, because Sam was right. It was already well past four in the morning; the sun would be rising along with the early-morning suburb joggers. The curtains were pulled, but the large bay window would do nothing to conceal the massacre inside for any wandering eyes. The last thing they needed was to be caught red handed. 

Dean glanced down at his hands, fingers sticking together with bloody, tacky and dark. He thought he could see the difference between Sam’s blood and the kitsunes… Sam’s felt heavier. 

“Let’s just…” Dean shook his head, jerking himself to his feet. “Fuck it, let’s get out of this place.” 

He didn’t need to turn to see Sam nodding. He uncurled his fist, pinpricks of discomfort shooting across his palm as his skin was pulled apart, and strode through the living room, stepping across the bodies. It was easy enough to locate the bedroom, and he dug through the closet to find two shirts that would fit him and Sam. Jeans were a no-go, and Dean sure as hell wasn’t leaving here wearing sweatpants. Their pants weren’t half bad, all things considered. 

Dean stopped in the bathroom, washing the blood from his hands and wrists, rubbing a wet hand over his face to get rid of the few droplets that had landed there. He couldn’t wash away the haunted look on his face, so he slammed the light switch back down instead. 

In the living room, Sam was standing in the center of the carpet, boots just inches away from the first blood pool. He was looking down at the female kitsune with a contemplative look on his face, and Dean felt his throat get thick as he watched his brother. 

Sam could’ve died. Sam almost _did_ die. Part of Dean still wasn’t convinced that he’d done a good enough job, though the fact that the bleeding had stopped, and color had already returned to Sam’s cheeks should’ve been a good enough clue. 

Dean took a step forward and Sam turned to him, holding his blood-stained shirt gingerly between his fingers. Dean raised a shaky hand and Sam pulled a face as Dean reached forward. He didn’t know what possessed him, but suddenly his fingers were brushing against the side of his brother’s throat, pushing back his hair carefully. Then, Dean leaned forward, pressing his lips right above the stitches. 

Sam inhaled sharply, Dean could feel the heat from his brother’s skin against his own. He heard Sam exhale. 

“What was that for?” Sam broke the silence, his voice just barely above a whisper. 

Dean meant to pull back, to shrug it off. To throw out a, “kiss your boo-boos to make it better” like he had when they were kids. It would’ve been easy, and Sam would’ve laughed it off. 

But Dean _couldn’t._ When he closed his eyes, he saw Sam falling to his knees, hands clutching at his throat as blood began to seep through his fingers. He saw himself kneeling over Sam’s legs, the throw blanket from the back of couch pressed to Sam’s neck with all of the pressure he could muster. He saw himself watching Sam’s eyes, dreading their shine to become dull, lifeless and cold. His very life had flashed before his eyes. 

And though the life hadn’t seeped from his brother’s eyes, the blood had miraculously stopped… the entire time Dean stitched Sam’s skin back together, he’d been thinking. And he had realized something important. 

“Dean?” Sam whispered, tilting his head slightly, concerned and patient. Sam was always so fucking patient. 

Dean glanced from his fingertips, still pressed against Sam’s throat, up to his brother’s eyes. He swallowed hard, then moved forward. His hand slipped to the back of Sam’s neck, holding him gently in Sammye he wanted to move, and Dean’s lips found their mark. 

Sam froze, shirt slipping from his fingers and dropping to cover Dean’s boot. 

But he didn’t pull away. 

Dean took a breath, pressing his forehead against Sam’s. “Sammy, fuck, tell me this is okay.”

A splinted noise broke from Sam’s mouth, his hands finding the bottom of Dean’s shirt and tugging him forward. Dean took the answer for what it was, and found his brother’s mouth again. Sam tasted like the cinnamon gum Dean hated, with its bright red foil always balled up on the floor of the Impala. But he craved the taste now, surged forward as if its spicy sweetness was all Dean needed to survive. 

“Couch?” Sam asked against his mouth, fingers working at each of Dean’s buttons, nails scraping over the skin he exposed. 

“I’m not lying on that fox-fur’d catastrophe again,” Dean muttered back into his mouth, allowing himself to be pulled along as Sam backed himself against the wall. He could feel Sam’s body against his own, a solid line of heat and life. Dean found it easier to breathe. 

With hands still shaking, Dean traced them up Sam’s bare chest, making out any bump, or bruise, or scrape he may have missed. Sam shivered beneath his touch. Sam grabbed the edges of Dean’s shirt and ripped it from his arms, struggling it free from his wrists without breaking their kiss. 

Dean kissed Sam like his life depended on it, mapping out every square inch of his brother’s mouth with his tongue. Sam kissed him back with everything he had, leaving Dean’s head spinning slightly.

He’d touched nearly every inch of his brother before now, knew Sam’s body almost better than his own, but this felt different. He moved with purpose, a gentle clarity, mirroring each of Sam’s careful movements. 

Fingers pressed and pulled and slid over skin until they were both standing at the edge of the living room, clothing cast aside and breathing hard.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, hands shaking but firm from their place on Dean’s hips. “Please.” 

Dean met Sam’s eyes, watching the same emotions he was feeling play across Sam’s face. And he nodded. 

He bent down for his jeans, finding his wallet in the back pocket and removing a pocket-sized lube from inside. He pulled out the edge of a condom, glancing at Sam, dropping the wallet at his brother’s shake of a head. As he straightened, Sam turned, back arched and hands pressed flat against the wall, his legs slightly spread. 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean whispered, eyes widening at the sight, his heart pounding for a different reason entirely. 

Slowly, Dean trailed his fingertips down Sam’s back, over the cleft of his ass, loving the goosebumps that broke out across Sam’s skin. Against the wall, Sam gave a soft sigh, opening his legs wider and shifting his hips back to give Dean the access he needed. 

Dean ripped the foil packet open and squeezed the lubricant onto his fingers, shifting the gel slightly to warm it before returning his attention to his brother spread out before him. Slowly, he pressed a finger against Sam’s opening, just breaching the tight muscle. Sam let out a soft groan, egging Dean on.

It was as if time stopped; nothing else mattered anymore, not really. In the darkest corners of his mind, Dean could remember having thoughts like this, once upon a time. Of seeing his brother in a completely different light; skin dotted with sweat from pleasure instead of pain, his mouth releasing a sigh instead of scream. He’d locked those thoughts away, right beside the box of a ‘normal life’ and made due to be content with what he could have. 

Dean slowly worked Sam open, pressing deeper into his body, dragging up each of those dirty little thoughts he’d had of his brother over the years. He played Sam’s body, pressing his lips against Sam’s spine, drinking in every soft gasp and whispered, “Dean”.

Dean pressed in close, soaking in his brother’s warmth as two fingers became three, three became four. His lips once again found the side of his brother’s throat, pressing just behind where the first stitch started, and he fought back the sudden burning in his eyes. 

“Dean,” Sam whispered, his right arm coming back and finding Dean’s hand. He wrapped his fingers around Dean’s wrist, squeezing. “I’m ready. Please, Dean, I’m ready.”

“Shhh,” Dean whispered against the shell of his ear, slowly withdrawing his fingers and pressing his lips to Sam’s throat once more. “I got you. Turn around.”

Sam nodded, exhaling sharply and turning as Dean spread the remaining lube over himself. He leaned in and kissed Sam softly, reaching forward to run his hands down Sam’s sides, to the back of his thighs. 

“Up,” he warned, tightening his grip and lifting, Sam reacting quickly and pressing himself back against the wall as his legs moved around Dean’s waist. 

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam whispered, hands moving to Dean’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle. Dean met his brother’s eyes, pressing his chest harder into Sam’s body as he released an arm to reach between them, guiding them together. He sank into Sam’s body slowly with a groan, stopping only once he was buried deep inside.

They held their position for a moment, breathing in the other’s air as Sam’s body adjusted to Dean’s cock inside of him. Then Dean moved, rocking his hips back slightly only to slam back inside. Sam’s back slid against the wall and he gasped in both pain and pleasure, his legs tightening around Dean’s waist. Dean had a moment to wonder if this was a bad idea for Sam’s wound, when Sam’s hand moved to the back of Dean’s neck and squeezed hard, grounding him.

Dean reached between them, wrapped his fingers around Sam’s cock and pumped his fist in time with his hips. He pounded every fear, every doubt, every repressed feeling he’d ever had into Sam’s body, drowned them with his choked off sobs and the sound of flesh against flesh. It was a new sort of desperation, and Dean clung to Sam, fucking into him harder and faster, fingers digging into his skin as if he would suddenly, somehow, disappear.

Dean was drowning in Sam’s breathy moans and the feeling of his body hot and tight, clenching down on his cock. _“Dean, Dean, Dean, fuck, yes!”_ was a mantra, and Dean was ruined for anyone else – as if that would ever be an option again. Sam cried out, his body stiffening as his cock pulsed hot, his release coating Dean’s hand and chest and Sam’s stomach.

Dean groaned, his hips losing their rhythm as he chased his own release, groaning as his balls tightened and he pressed harder against Sam’s body, stilling as he spilt his release deep inside. 

They stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, sweaty and sticky from Sam’s release sandwiched between their bodies. When he’d caught his breath, Dean slowly lowered Sam’s legs to the ground, Sam reaching out immediately and pulling them together. Dean pressed his forehead against Sam’s shoulder, matching every inhale and exhale his brother made. 

“Sammy,” Dean started, but Sam cut him off, finding his lips in a soft kiss. 

“Thought you didn’t like chick flick moments?” Sam whispered back, smiling. Dean knew the out for what it was and was grateful. The things he needed to say, the things he _wanted_ to say, were better left for something better than a bloodied ‘crime scene’ in an old house that meant nothing to them. 

“Found you a clean shirt,” he said instead, and Sam nodded, releasing him and reaching down for their clothes. They pulled on jeans, their socks and boots, Sam coming back with an old shopping back to throw their bloodied shirts into. They worked in silent tandem, leaving the house as quiet as they’d entered it. 

On the walk down the driveway, Sam slipped his hand through Dean’s, twisting their fingers together. Dean smiled and squeezed back.


End file.
